(Aurelia's POV)
When Alaric opened the bedroom door, Sir Aiden was standing on the threshold. I tilted my head, stepping forward to stand beside Alaric. He looped an arm around my waist automatically — protective, grounding — before addressing the older man.
"What can I do for you, Sir Aiden?" His voice held that careful blend of authority and respect he always used with the council.
Sir Aiden cleared his throat. Up close I noticed his eyes were swollen and red. Had he been crying? My stomach tightened with a sudden, cold worry.
"Prince Alaric," Sir Aiden said, bowing on one knee with a hand to his heart. "I'm sorry to tell you… your father has been killed."
The words landed like a physical blow. I covered my mouth, a soundless gasp catching in my throat. How? Why? The questions crowded my mind, but they stuck there, impossible to form into words.
Alaric's arm around my waist tightened until it bruised; I could already picture the marks that would bloom tomorrow, but I didn't care. He was with me, angry and shocked, and that mattered more than any pain.
"Go," I said, my voice brittle but steady. "You need to be there." I pressed my palm to his cheek to wipe the tears I saw forming, though my touch felt useless against whatever storm had opened inside him. "I'll be all right. Don't worry about me. Go."
His gaze flickered to mine, a flash of gratitude and anguish, and he nodded once. He didn't say goodbye; he walked away, measured and controlled, leaving me standing in the doorway until his figure disappeared down the corridor. When the door clicked closed behind him, I sank down onto the bed.
If the King was dead, why hadn't I felt the bond sever? A cold, puzzled thought nudged me, and Arrie answered almost immediately, her voice low and practical in my head.
Because we aren't part of this pack yet, Aurelia. That's why you didn't sense it.
I frowned. "Wouldn't Alaric have felt it?" I asked silently. He had looked shocked — stunned, even.
Some of their warriors were away at war, Arrie replied. He might have assumed the alarm came from them.
Her answer made a strange sort of sense, but it didn't settle the unease thrumming through me. I let myself stare out the high window instead, watching the light drain slowly from the sky while I waited for Alaric to return.
The sun sank low, painting the palace gardens in bruised purples and golds. I was halfway through a restless hour when the door opened. I expected Alaric's scent, but the air that slipped in was wrong—different. Before I could react, a sharp prick bit into my arm and the world went black.
(Alaric's POV)
The news of my father's death hit me like ice. I had expected anything but that. I'd seen him two days ago — alive, if distant — and the idea that he could be dead now felt unreal.
Sir Aiden led the way in silence, his coat fluttering behind him in the morning breeze as we crossed to the royal wing. When we reached the study — the most secure room in the palace — a heavy, final quiet lay over the doorway.
I pushed the door open and stopped cold.
Father sat in his chair, slumped like a ruined statue. His neck had been cut. My eyes snagged on the detail that should not have been missing: his fingers. All ten were gone, cleanly removed. For a moment I could not breathe; the image was too raw.
"Aiden—where are his fingers?" I asked, because my voice needed something to do besides tremble.
"We've found none of them," Sir Aiden said quietly. "We were alerted about an hour ago. The maid who brought his lunch found him… like this." He didn't flinch. He had to be the one who stayed steady when the rest of us could not.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, tasting metal in my mouth. "Make sure the body is taken care of. Find his fingers. Turn over every corner of this palace until you do." My words were sharp but hollow. We moved like actors through a scene I didn't understand. He had been my father by blood, but since Mother's death he'd been a man I knew only in pieces — ruler first, father last.
I left the study without looking back. Outside, the corridor felt too bright, too ordinary. When I reached the door to our chambers, the silence pressing there was different — heavy and wrong.
"She's not inside," Dax growled beside me, low and urgent. "Her scent… it's gone."
The word on Dax's breath was colder than any winter draft. My blood turned to ice.